Revenge of the Dog Team

by William W. Johnstone

  Kilroy followed. Boyle told Lane, “Keep an eye on Viller until he’s able to get around on his feet. And don’t let anyone else in here. I don’t want any officers seeing him in this condition; it’s bad for morale.”

  Boyle opened the door and went out into the hall, Kilroy trailing him. At the end of the hall was a T-shaped branching; Boyle’s office was on the right. They went inside, Boyle closing and locking the door. Opposite the door, windows gave a view of the parking lot behind the courthouse and beyond that, a public park.

  “Have a seat, make yourself comfortable,” Boyle said. He went behind his desk, plopping heavily into a swivel chair. Switching on an intercom, he said, “Hold all calls, Myra Mae. I’ve got a visitor and don’t want to be disturbed.”

  A voice replied over the speaker, “Okay, Sheriff.”

  Boyle bent over, dipping, dropping out of sight below the desktop, opening a drawer, and rummaging through it. He came up with a bottle of whiskey, set it on the desk. It was three-quarters full. “You a drinking man, Mr. Kilroy?”

  Kilroy said, “Sure.”

  Boyle rose, crossing to a filing cabinet. On top of it was a plastic bag filled with Styrofoam cups. He pulled out a couple, set them on the desk, and splashed a generous portion in each. Holding his cup in both hands, he said, “Cheers,” and drained it.

  “Here’s mud in your eye,” Kilroy said, taking a hefty belt. It was good whiskey, smooth with a biting burn he liked.

  The sheriff refilled his own cup and gulped down some more. Kilroy said, “To save some time, Sheriff, I’ll tell you what happened when you called the number I gave you. You reached a special hotline in the governor’s office, a line that’s monitored twenty-four hours a day for occasions just like this. You were told in no uncertain terms that I was a special investigator and that I was to be extended every cooperation requested. Failure to do so would result in Adobe Flats being swamped with more state and federal law enforcement agents than there are flies on a fresh cow pie. I believe that mention was made of all kinds of charges and penalties being invoked for failure to extend said cooperation.”

  Boyle’s face was covered with a sheen of sweat, like he’d been misted. The booze had put some color back in his complexion, eyes glittering in a flushed, feverish face. He said, “I’m cooperating. What do you want?”

  “First, let me tell you what I don’t want,” Kilroy said. “I’ll lay my cards faceup on the table. You’ve got a dirty little town here, and it can stay that way for all I care. I’m not here to reform Adobe Flats, except where it happens to affect the parameters of my assignment. So you don’t have to worry about your dirty laundry coming out in the wash, as long as you do what you’re told. And don’t bother wasting my time with any denials about how you run a clean department in a clean town, because you don’t and it isn’t and I just plain don’t give a damn.

  “I’m sure that the party on the other end of the hotline to the governor’s office got across the point that this is a matter of national security, so there’s some nice twenty-year prison terms in federal maximum-security facilities waiting for anybody who obstructs the investigation.”

  Boyle said, “Yes, that was made perfectly clear.” He went to take another gulp of whiskey, only to find the cup was empty, so he filled it and drank deep. He set down the cup, shuddering. “National security—Adobe Flats? Why here, how…?”

  Kilroy said, “I’ll let you know as needed. And you’d by God better make sure that you keep it tightly held, or I’ll come after you myself.”

  Boyle, craving another refill, reached for the bottle, but Kilroy got there first, moving it out of the other’s reach. “You’ve had enough for now,” Kilroy said, “I want you alert and functioning.”

  Boyle said, “What do you want me to do?”

  Kilroy said, “For starters, I want all the information you’ve got on the death of Bob Moomjian.”

  Boyle drew a blank, said stupidly, “Who?”

  “Bob Moomjian. A visitor from Las Vegas who died here six months ago.”

  “I remember now. He got killed in a car wreck. But why…?”

  “Never mind why, just do it.”

  Not having been formally arrested, booked, and processed, Kilroy still had all the personal possessions he’d had on him at the time of his apprehension, minus his gun and some extra speed loads he’d been carrying. From an inside pocket of his denim vest he withdrew a manila envelope and opened it. It contained a number of photographs. He took one out and laid it on the desk blotter so Boyle could see it.

  It was a formal composition, a head-and-shoulders studio portrait shot of a man in his mid-to-late-thirties. He had short fair hair, close-cropped, was clean-shaven, and had an alert, level, flat-eyed gaze. He was smiling with his mouth, but the smile failed to reach his eyes.

  Kilroy said, “His name’s Pete Peters, Jr.”

  Boyle said, “I don’t know him from Adam.”

  “Find him. He’s been in Adobe Flats. I want to know everything about him: where he went, where he stayed, where he ate and drank, who his friends and associates were, his enemies if any; whatever you’ve got.”

  He laid out a second photo on the desktop, one of a decidedly different sort. It was a candid shot, taken in a casino. It focused on Pete Peters, Jr., and a female companion. You knew she was a companion by the way they were hanging all over each other. He wore a loud print sports shirt and blazer. She was young, about twenty, with platinum blond hair in a page boy cut. She was heavily made up, with wickedly arched eyebrows, thick eyelashes, and a lipstick-painted mouth. She wore a sleeveless white and black polka-dot dress with a plunging V-neckline that accented the deep cleavage of full, melon-shaped breasts. She and Peters were bent over the rail of a craps table; she was shaking the dice prepatory to making a throw.

  Kilroy said, “Her name’s Tammi, last name unknown. She’s Peters’ girl. They met in Vegas, but she left some clues that connect her to Adobe Flats.”

  Boyle unconsciously licked his lips. “A juicy little piece, but she’s not from around here.”

  “My sources say otherwise.”

  “I’m not likely to forget a cupcake like that. The town’s not big enough for her to hide her light under a bushel. If she was from around here, I’d know her.”

  Kilroy was insistent. “There’s a connection. She may not be native to this town, but she’s got friends or associates here. A number of phone calls from her hotel room were made to a pay phone in Adobe Flats.”

  Boyle shrugged. “I’ll ask around. What reason do I give for looking for her?”

  “Hell, you’re the sheriff, aren’t you? You don’t need a reason. Pete Peters, Jr., Tammi, or both. I want a line on them, the sooner the better. Yesterday,” Kilroy said. “I can tell you this: It ties in with the death of Choey Maldonado.”

  That piqued Boyle’s interest. “How about that!”

  “Yes, and that’s not all. The attempted hit on Rio is part of it, too.”

  “Damn!”

  Kilroy said, “That’s enough to get you started.” He glanced at the wall clock; it was close to five P.M. “I’ll check back at nine tonight to see what you’ve got.”

  Boyle groaned. “Have a heart, man! The night life in this town don’t get started until nine. Give me some time so I can canvass the honky-tonks, gambling dens, working girls, and whatnot!”

  “Fair enough. I’ll check back with you at midnight. You’ll be here?”

  “Hell, no,” Boyle said. “Meet me at the Salt Lick Club. Ask any bartender or cab driver, they’ll tell you where to find it.”

  Kilroy said, “Midnight at the Salt Lick then.”

  “If I need to contact you before then, how’ll I reach you?”

  “I’ll reach you. One thing more,” Kilroy said. “I want my gun back, the one I used today.”

  “That’s evidence—”

  “Not as far as you’re concerned.”

  “All right, I’ll get it released.”

  Ki
lroy said, “Here’s a tip to save you some time. Those two hitters today were Tex Barker and Lee Deetz. Barker and Deetz, think you can remember that? Run a check on them and you’ll find they’ve each got a rap sheet a mile long.”

  A short time later, Kilroy was out on the street, gun in his pocket, ready to continue the hunt. He smiled to himself when he thought of how he’d spun the line about being a special investigator out of the governor’s office.

  It was true as far as it went; he was accredited as a special investigator for the chief executive in the state’s capital. But that was only a cover worked up by the higher-ups in Washington, a legend to cloak and facilitate his true mission here in Adobe Flats. Kilroy was the ace of killers, the Lord High Executioner, the Top Dog of the Dog Team.

  ELEVEN

  It wasn’t the sight of the old man getting slapped around that was so rough, though that was bad enough; it was the sobbing of the younger man, the old man’s son, that was starting to work on Kilroy’s nerves. And what nerves he had had been worked on in the past by experts.

  The ugly scene was taking place in a back room at Toro Loco, a club down in Old Town that doubled as a Maldonado headquarters. The club itself was a lively, happening place with a dance floor, live band, plenty of tables and chairs for dining and drinking, and a long bar. It was about ten P.M. of the day Kilroy came to town, and the place was packed.

  Its clientele included not only Hispanics, but lots of crossover patronage from the younger, more adventurous Anglo set. The dance band laid down some sinuous Latin rhythms punched up by a horn section whose range varied from bold and brassy to sweetly lyrical. The crowded dance floor vibrated from the movements of the couples swirling and swaying upon it. There wasn’t a spare chair or empty table to be found, and the drinkers were lined up three deep at the bar.

  That was out on the main floor. Behind the back of the bandstand were some private rooms, off-limits to the public. One of them was the private office of Rio Maldonado, a spacious rectangle whose long walls ran parallel with the front and back of the building.

  A window set high in the rear wall had been painted over with pale green paint. There was a back door out of the place; it looked to be made of solid metal. The walls were wood-paneled. They were decorated by a dozen or more framed photographs of beautiful showgirls, provocatively posed in various states of undress.

  There was a golden oak desk, a couple of filing cabinets, some armchairs and a couch, and a well-stocked private bar. All the furniture was grouped against the walls, leaving a generous open space in the center. Kilroy suspected it had been arranged that way to facilitate doings like the one that was taking place right now.

  The room must have been soundproofed because the music of the dance band and the clamor of the crowd on the main floor was muted here to a dull background of white noise. Of course, the soundproofing worked both ways, not only keeping the outside noise out, but keeping what went on inside the room from getting out.

  The uncarpeted floor was covered with linoleum, probably because it was easier to clean the blood off it that way, Kilroy thought. The room was nicely air-conditioned, with good ventilation.

  Rio Maldonado sat behind the golden oak desk, a tumbler glass filled with tequila at hand. Leandro sat in an armchair, smoking a king-size cigar, watching the show. Kilroy sat on a bar stool, facing the center of the room, leaning an elbow on top of the bar.

  In the open center space, an older man sat tied to a straight-backed, armless wooden chair. “Manuel,” Rio had called him. Kilroy reflected that the guy probably wasn’t all that old; chronologically he was maybe ten, fifteen years Kilroy’s senior, putting him in his mid-fifties. But he was an old fifty-plus, prematurely aged by a lifetime of hard work and hard times. His hair, eyebrows, and mustache were ash gray, his gnarly face seamed and wrinkled, his hands crippled and arthritic.

  The treatment he was getting wasn’t going to improve the prospects for his longevity any. He was being worked over by a young thug named Tony. Not so much a working over, really, as a slapping around. A real beating would have probably finished him off. But the slapping around he was getting was no picnic. Tony was laying into him with big, wide open-handed slaps that sent Manuel’s head reeling each time they connected. He was tied to the chair not so much to forestall any resistance as to keep him from falling down.

  His face was swollen, lips smashed, blood trickling from his nostrils and the corners of his mouth. When he wasn’t being hit, he slumped forward in the chair, chin resting on his chest. The ropes looped around his arms and torso binding him to the chair cut deep into his flesh.

  Tony was into his work, winding up and leaning into each blow, putting his weight into it, even rising on the balls of his feet to deliver his strikes. His open hand was cupped, adding more impact to the blows. The blows made hollow thwacking sounds each time they solidly connected. Tony periodically altered sides, sometimes smacking Manuel on the right side of the face, sometimes on the left. Sometimes, for variety’s sake, he backhanded him, just to break up the rhythm and the timing. More often than not, each blow sent some blood droplets flying.

  Manuel was hurting, but not like the young guy lying on the floor. Paco, his name was. He was Manuel’s son. He was slight, in his early twenties. He’d taken a real beating. His face was a mask of mottled purple bruises, his nose was smashed flat, his pulpy lips were slashed and bleeding from where punches had cut them against his teeth, of which he was missing a few. One eye was so puffed up that it was swollen shut; the other was open a slit, allowing him to see. That was the eye that was leaking tears as he watched the beating of his father continue.

  Kilroy had come along in the middle of things. Paco had already had his beating and Manuel’s was in progress when Kilroy had first arrived. Earlier tonight, Kilroy had been approached in the lobby of the hotel where he was staying by Maddox Kent, the Maldonados’ legal counsel. Kent had suggested that Kilroy might find it worth his while to stop by the Toro Loco for a little chat with Rio Maldonado. Kilroy had allowed to the counselor that he might just do that very thing. What with cleaning his gun, showering, grabbing dinner, and taking care of a few errands, Kilroy had gotten to the club at about a quarter to ten.

  People were lined up outside the club waiting to get in. Kilroy cut to the head of the line, telling the doorman that Rio wanted to see him. That gained him immediate entry, but he had to wait around by the coatroom for five minutes or so for the word to be passed to Rio. Presently, a young gun punk who didn’t give his name arrived to escort him to the back, delivering him to the closed door of Rio’s office. Hector came out, closing the door behind him. He said, “You got to be searched first.”

  Kilroy’s .38 was in a holster clipped to his belt on his right hip. He peeled back the flap of his sport jacket, revealing the rod. Hector relieved him of it, then gave him a quick, efficient pat-down frisk anyway. Kilroy came up clean except for a couple of speed loads in his jacket’s left-hand side pocket; Hector let him keep those. He opened the door, indicating to Kilroy to enter. Kilroy went in, Hector following and closing the door behind him. The gun punk stayed outside.

  Inside, Rio sat behind the desk, Leandro occupied an armchair, Tony was in the process of slapping around Manuel, and Paco lay huddled on the floor, whimpering and moaning. Tony was winding up for another smack, but held his hand when Kilroy and Hector entered. Leandro stopped puffing on his cigar, taking it from his mouth and rolling it in his fingers, his face expressionless, eyeing Kilroy,

  Rio smiled at Kilroy, a toothy grin. “Just finishing up some business. After that, we’ll get to know each other better.”

  Kilroy shrugged, indicating it was okay with him. Hector crossed to the desk, going around the tableau in the center made up of Tony and Manuel. He handed Kilroy’s gun to Rio, saying, “That’s all he had on him.”

  Rio laid the gun on its side on the desktop, within easy reach of his hand, near the tumbler of tequila. “Make yourself comfortable.”

&n
bsp; Kilroy went to the bar. He eyed the rows of bottles lined up on glass shelves on the wall behind the bar, but no one offered him a drink and he thought it might be a bit forward to help himself, so he perched on a bar stool to watch the rest of the show.

  Gesturing toward the center of the room, Rio said, “An exercise in community relations. You see before you the Guittierezes, Manuel and Paco, father and son. There was a daughter, Dolores. She was a whore, a good one. She had a real talent for the work. She also had a habit for heroin that caught up with her and she died. Young Paco blames me for it.”

  From the floor, Paco raised himself on an elbow and forced his smashed mouth to form words. “You…got her hooked…on the stuff.”

  Rio smiled. Kilroy would have sworn Rio actually had a twinkle in his eye. Tony went over and kicked Paco in the belly, doubling him up in a spasm of agonized writhing. He went to kick him again, but Rio said, “No more, I want him to see this. Otherwise, he misses the point of the lesson.”

  Rio turned to Kilroy. “The crazy ideas some people get in their heads! There’s no talking sense to them. Paco wouldn’t listen to reason. He told everybody he could that I was responsible for his sister’s death, blackening her name instead of letting her rest in her grave. He even took his wild story to the police!”

  He and Leandro exchanged knowing glances, while Hector allowed himself a little chuckle. How amusing, that one could be so foolish as to repose any confidence in the law! In this town, Kilroy was inclined to agree with them.

  Rio said, “A stubborn fellow, that one. Even a beating failed to make him see the light. Not like Manuel. Manuel had sense, he knew better. He tried to convince Paco to drop the matter. But Paco is a bad son, a disrespectful son, who will not heed the wise counsel of his elders. So he keeps on talking.

  “In a family, everyone is responsible for everyone else. Paco is too brave, too stupid to be afraid for himself? Very well, he will learn to be afraid for his father. Manuel must suffer for his son’s loose tongue.”